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Home Stretch

The season of family birthdays has begun. And right on cue the weather turned cooler, for the first time I hesitated while entering the pool. It was actually chilly! The Grands will be returning to school next week. How did this happen? First the unbearable heat of midsummer, and now overcast skies from fires in Canada.

We called our son for his birthday and he was busy making bottles and feeding babies. What? Yes, the twins have baby teeth coming and are all ready to chew! They sit in their high chairs like baby birds waiting for something yummy. I asked if they had a Mouli grater – the small hand-held gizmo that looks like a cheese grater upside down. No? I raved about the tiny tool, you could put anything you cook for yourselves into it, ad a dollop of yogurt, and with a few turns produce finely pureed baby food!

But they did have some smart baby food electric device that weighs and measures and grinds….it was a gift…and again, I felt ancient. I’ve been feeling older lately. Maybe it was the oppressive heat and not getting outside to walk. Or maybe it’s just the lethargy of unending bad news from T world and the scandal that will not be stopped involving young girls. Take the first page story of today’s NYTimes:

“A Look Inside Jeffrey Epstein’s Manhattan Lair: In his seven-story townhouse, the sex offender hosted the elite, displayed photos with presidents and showcased a first edition of “Lolita,” according to previously unreported photos and letters.” https://www.nytimes.com/2025/08/05/us/jeffrey-epstein-mansion-photos.html?unlocked_article_code=1.b08.884G.AM6Pxo2enw4z&smid=url-share

The picture on his dresser, with Mr T and Melania, where he has cut out his accomplice Maxwell is telling. And the letter from Woody Allen, comparing him to Dracula, is absurdist theatre. I wonder why it has taken this story, of all the transgressions, the tale of an accused rapist realtor running a modeling agency and the high brow sex offender, to shake the foundation of the MAGA faithful? This is the first time I’ve actually read anything about Epstein, and it will be the last.

It’s time to think about baking a carrot cake for the Bug’s birthday. Time to find a dress for the Bat Mitzvah. And my lipstick feminist sister Kay has found her graduation picture from stewardess school in 1958. She tells me she was never weighed or measured, and I understand why. Kay always carried herself with confidence, after all she was a single mother when the job description was anything but welcoming. Women were not just weighed, they were expected to be single with no dependents. The fledgling pilot/flight attendant union of the airline industry was the first to test the commodifying of a woman’s body.

It’s supposed to heat back up this week. The Bug has started her volleyball practice and back to school shopping for the Pumpkin too has begun; he’s going to have his first locker! I’ve told my sister she was a trail blazer, after our Year of Living Dangerously she really had no other choice. Can you spot her?

Anyone alive in the era of Chevy Chase vacation comedies knows how to play travel games with kids while driving, like memory games or counting license plates from a certain state. “I spy with my little eye…” Well, since the Bride and Groom are rather old school, I’m happy to report our Grands are experts and one favorite is “the Rose and the Thorn.” On the trip home, they recount the highs and lows of their vacation. I can’t wait to hear, but meanwhile…

“Wanna play Boggle?” Bob gives me the look. “No…” “What about Scrabble?” Bob gives me the look again.

Eventually we sit down in my snug, him on his iPad and me at my desk, to tackle the New York Times Puzzles. Like toddlers in parallel play, we start with Strands and move on to Wordle and Connections. We share possible answers and take turns leading. If the mood strikes, we might even try the Mini Crossword.

Do you like to play games? I love to play games, but Bob is another story. He grew up with two brothers in a cerebral family of doctors. His mother listened to opera. It didn’t help that he just wasn’t naturally athletic, he even disdained golf! In Yiddish, he was what you might call lovingly a klutz – Klutz (rhymes with “what’s”) is Yiddish for “piece of wood,” and refers to a person who is clumsy.” After his cerebellar stroke, I told the kids that Dad would just be a little klutzier than usual.

I grew up playing color war at Camp St Joseph; every day, with every sport, we’d gain (or lose) points for our team. It was cut throat, even our Jacks games on the cabin porch were merciless. At home I’d play Scrabble with Nell and the Flapper and chess with my brother. I played cards with Daddy Jim almost every night after supper, we’d keep pennies in a cigar box for the occasion. Today, my favorite game to play is backgammon which I recently found out originated in ancient Egypt! I have a few sets of backgammon; one is small and magnetic for travel, and another is hand-carved sitting proudly on a vintage game table in the family room.

Only the not-so-L’il Pumpkin will play backgammon with me because supposedly I win all the time??!

But I’m ready to branch out to MahJongg! Last month after dropping the Love Bug off at Temple for her Bat Mitzvah practice, I discovered a social hall filled with middle-aged/elderly/women playing MahJongg in the middle of the day. I thought I’d died and went to heaven. How could I join this group? Unfortunately, their next beginner session was during our California vacation. Then the Bride informed me that she wants to learn how to play too! It seems that after the pandemic, a younger generation was looking for a reason to build community, and not by going to bars or playing Bingo!

 “The game trended in the U.S. in the 1920s after an executive who had lived in China introduced it to well-to-do friends in California. A group of Jewish American women who were fans of the game created the National Mah Jongg League in 1937, developing an American style of the game and creating a lasting affinity for it within a culture that, like the Chinese, was othered in America.

I’ve watched my friend Les play MahJongg. She’s had a game going for years; every month they travel to a different house but it’s at night since some of the women are still working. I love the aesthetics of the game – the feel of the tiles, the sound of the shuffling and the beautiful carvings. I’d love to find an old Bakelite set. And of course, any excuse to get a group of like-minded women together is a good day in my book!

Luckily, Les has offered to teach us – the Bug too! She’s not putting her house on the market quite yet, so we’ll have time to learn. And she told me about an addendum to the Rose and Thorn game. After you’ve recounted all the highlights (like seeing dolphins) and lowlights (like being stung by a jellyfish) you add the Caterpillar. In other words, you set some goals for the next trip! Maybe we take in an opera? Aspirational thinking, I love it!

Here is the Big Chill at our Y2K trip to Holden Beach. Strangely enough, Lyle put me in charge of the entertainment. The Bride stayed behind in Rumson to throw her own party.

It’s a glorious, hot morning in Nashville. I’ve just emerged from my neighbor’s pool after a blissful hour of meditative aquatherapy – I breathe in, I’m a mountain. I breathe out I’m strong. Every morning Les sends me a text, “The gate’s open,” which means come over anytime and swim. I am a lucky duck. First for surviving a near fatal fall in November, and also for raising adult children who don’t mind our company! But especially for my friend and neighbor Les and her sparkling pool. Sunflowers peek over the fence and rabbits and hummingbirds watch my progress.

But Les and her husband have informed me they are downsizing and planning to move to a townhome. It’s not easy making friends in your 70s. For days I’ve been walking around in a funk; I know that she and her husband will still be in Nashville just a short car ride away, but still it’s a loss. There will be no more “porch surprises” of her latest baking spree, no more morning texts, no more walks in the neighborhood. Bob joked that they will have to put a rider in the contract of their buyer – home comes with well established pool boy and girl!

I dream about building a small bungalow colony surrounding a pool for our family, and extended family.

After this last trip, confirming that our newest California grandbabies are mini-mermaids, I’m determined to make more memories. And it seems that multigenerational travel is trending these days, although we’ve been traveling together for ages. We celebrated Great Grandma Ada’s 90th birthday in Mexico. We’ve spent a few weeks almost every winter for forty years on an island in the French West Indies; not counting the earlier spring visits to Martha’s Vineyard. We even went to Hawaii together after one country closed its borders during the pandemic.

But what if we had one place, a summer retreat to call our own, maybe near a lake?

The benefits of multigenerational trips are numerous. In larger groups, for example, child-care responsibilities can be shared across family members, allowing parents to take a breather. But the real value of these trips might be how they give relatives an opportunity to freshen their perception of the people they’ve known for perhaps their entire life. Travel can take us out of our familiar contexts, with their routines and set roles, and offer people a chance to see one another differently. A multigenerational vacation can be a welcome reminder that the identities that our parents, children, and other relatives know us by aren’t set in stone.https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2023/12/large-multigenerational-family-vacation-parents-relatives/676382/?gift=MZkyOCULmn5OA_9_ikIP-xkc3hV2FOFyZx-5RQD57Rw&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

I remember when I went waterskiing on a trip once, and my teenage children looked at me like I had two heads! Or that time we put a pre-teen Rocker on a scooter and he took off like he was born to drive it.

Our Grands are off visiting their Paternal Northern Grandparents in the great state of Virginia. The place where we built our dream home overlooking the Blue Ridge. But they live in Northern VA, close to national monuments and museums. It’s become a tradition for them to spend that last week before school starts with the Groom’s family. And just last week, the Groom’s brother Uncle Dan and his wife Natalie welcomed the newest cousin to their family, another red-headed baby boy! Big Congratulations!! They already have a three year old, so counting the L’il Pumpkin that makes three boys!

If you are traveling this summer, I hope everything goes smoothly. May your planes be on time, and may your seat mate be healthy. May you adapt gracefully to the limitations of aging. And if you are struggling with loss, may you find a way to reframe your grief. Because we are all on a journey, and nothing is set in stone.

Summer Soup

We’re back to the hazy, hot, and humid South. Southern summer soup!

I woke to heavy condensation on our old house windows and the possibility of storms in the afternoon. What surprised me most was the constant chatter of insects! You may have guessed, the whole Nashville family went to visit our California branch last week; to play with the Twins and give them their first swim lesson. Almost five months old, our baby girls had an abundance of arms to hold them and proved to be excellent travelers and doggy paddlers.

Recently, the Bride asked me about our Spring/Summer sojourns to Martha’s Vineyard with our friends Lee and Albert when she was a baby. She was talking with a girlfriend who had a family home on the island and told me she didn’t remember where we stayed… But I remember dancing in a cowboy hat, meeting Carly Simon in a dress shop, buying fish straight off the pier, digging up clams on Menemsha Pond. I remember the wooden carousel in Oak Bluffs. I remember riding my bike all over the island, past the pink rosa rugosa hedges with her blond curls tickling the back of my arms from her baby seat perch. We didn’t wear helmets then.

“Gay Head,” I said. We’d stay near the colorful clay cliffs on the wild side of the Vineyard.

But Gay Head hasn’t existed for over twenty years, which is why my daughter’s friend never heard of it. The name of the town was changed back to its Native American “Aquinnah” – home of the Wampanoag people. Which led me down the path of investigating the island’s history. At about the same time in the early aughts, the tribe had voted on whether or not to allow gambling, in the form of bingo, on the island. The vote was NO.

When we packed up the crew to drive from LA to Malibu, I was reminded of packing up a caravan for our trip from the Berkshires to the Woods Hole Ferry. Only this time it was the Bride making sure we had snacks for the Bug and the Pumpkin. The Rocker and Aunt Kiki timed the trip to coincide with the babies’ nap schedule – they had tiny swimsuits and sun hats and even sunglasses. Our Grand’s newest cousins were hitting the pool with all the right fashion notes.

I hope Bob finds the photo of me holding our dog Bones’ leash with one hand and the toddler Bride’s hand with the other waiting for the ferry. She is wearing one of her favorite twirly skirts and has kicked out one leg mid-pirouette.

I am determined to visit the island again that populated my dreams for most of my life. My BFF Lee and her husband Al live on Vineyard Haven full time now. I imagine we attended the Summer Institute last week together to listen to NY Times journalists Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey talk about their investigation into Harvey Weinstein and jump-starting the #MeToo movement. https://vineyardgazette.com/news/2025/07/13/summer-institute-opens-journalists-who-inspired-metoo-movement

After all, it was Lee who encouraged me to write and submit an essay to the Berkshire Eagle. Back when the Bride was a baby and I was hanging diapers outside in the sun, she believed in me, always, and I adored her, my Convent of the Sacred Heart kickass/fellowJerseygirl/lawyer/friend. We picked ticks off our dogs together and didn’t mind the heat and humidity at all.

We like to stay home on the Fourth of July, as y’all know. I’m not superstitious per se, I just don’t want to be on the road. We could hear the fireworks all right (and all night), plus we had a fun pool party at our neighbors across the street. My friend Les suggested I read Anne Lamott’s opinion piece in the Washington Post about the Zen concept around chaos and confusion. When a lot of difficult things are happening all at the same time, Lamott reminds us that it means we have to protect something new that is about to be born.

I want to believe that something good is coming, and the Bug’s Bat Mitzvah is right around the corner. But after this past week, and especially the devastating flood in Texas over the holiday weekend, I’m finding it hard to string a group of words together. A girl’s camp swept away. Every day the number dead and missing rises, like the flood water. And still this administration is planning to cut NOAA’s budget and eliminate its Office of Oceanic and Atmospheric Research (OAR), “… which performs and coordinates climate research” according to Axios.

I had to pivot to an Atlantic article on emojis titled, “What Are Emoji?” since the Grands had just informed me there are a bunch of new emojis on my phone!

There are certain people I text, with those crazy/heart/eyes/tongue/out critters attached. It’s usually the same people in my contact list who’ve earned a special ringtone; for instance, the Rocker sounds like a digital exclamation point, and Aunt Kiki has a melodic chime. I am like Pavlov’s dog when I hear Kiki’s notes because I know that twin pictures are usually attached. And I almost always reply with a text followed by a bunch of emojis, and I won’t apologize for it! But I did learn a few things about the history and evolution of the characters.

“Gen Z Has Canceled the Thumbs-Up Emoji Because It’s ‘Hostile,’ ” one headline put it, citing data gathered in surveys and in the wild. Particularly as a reply to messages that contain words, Zoomers say, the 👍 is dismissive, disrespectful, even “super rude.” It’s a digital mumble, a surly if you say so, a sure but screw you. It is passive aggression, conveyed with pictographic clarity yet wrapped in plausible deniability.” https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2025/08/emoji-internet-communication/683261/?gift=MZkyOCULmn5OA_9_ikIP-xPBU6G_1aWa5Xz2SXeIsDE&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

Who knew? Well, I did think the thumbs up has been overused, and I hate seeing Mr T with his fake smile and his thumbs up. But please don’t answer me with a “K” either, it’s like a tween saying, “Fine.” And did you know who actually comes up with these pictograms? After starting out in Japan and becoming popular on internet chat boards, the emoji actually has an organization making them up and refining them: It’s called the Consortium from Houston, TX:

“…a rotating group of engineers, linguists, and typographers charged with establishing coding consistency across the internet’s static characters (letters, numbers, and the like); its goal was to enable global communication among disparate computers. Now it found itself overseeing dynamic characters as the public clamor for more emoji mounted.”

My heart goes out to all the families and friends of loved ones lost By the Guadelupe River flood. And to all the children losing their Medicaid coverage and families getting thrown off SNAP. I’m sending all y’all a giant 🤗

That’s Nixon in the corner of a Watergate era quilt at the Frist this summer.

Three generations went shopping for a dress. The Love Bug needed just the right dress for her right of passage; something that was fancy but could also move since playing basketball would be involved. We all three nestled into one changing room – too frou-frou, too itchy, too grandmotherly! One was gorgeous, but she didn’t want to look like the princess bride. I remembered shopping for the Bride’s wedding dress, and her joy when she finally found the right one in Grandma Ada’s closet.

My joy of shopping, my retail therapy, has been tempered lately. Like most Americans who land somewhere between purple and blue on our political landscape, I’ve been living with an underlying sense of dread. Every morning I wake up and wonder what new catastrophe our commander in chief has tweeted us into; we’ve bombed Iran (!), Bebe is coming to visit (?), the UVA President has resigned :-(, and wait, SCOTUS thinks Mr T needs more power(?!!).

I cannot follow the Senate’s debate on his big “beautiful” [sic] domestic and tax policy bill, with its cuts to Medicaid and federal nutrition programs, a testament to Republican greed and malice. I’m feeling helpless and hopeless, but I scan the latest updates and instead text the Bride:

“I loved the pale blue lace.”

Welcome to the hypernormalization club. I think this must be how the British felt during WWII, while bombs were falling on London and they were told to KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. We are living in a totalitarian schizo nightmare, where people of a certain means continue going to work, going to the grocery store, picking up their children from school as if nothing else matters. And if they feel like protesting something – like the Israeli hostages or ICE picking up undocumented people in the street and shipping them to El Salvador – well, they risk not just jail time but even possibly their lives.

 “….two main things are happening. The first is people seeing that governing systems and institutions are broken. And the second is that, for reasons including a lack of effective leadership and an inability to imagine how to disrupt the status quo, people carry on with their lives as normal despite systemic dysfunction – give or take a heavy load of fear, dread, denial and dissociation.” https://www.theguardian.com/wellness/ng-interactive/2025/may/22/hypernormalization-dysfunction-status-quo

We stopped in the baby department to look for sun hats for the Twins, and I was lost among the pastel bears and embroidered flowers for awhile. Our newest granddaughters have grown into 6 month sizes! I can be grateful for each milestone our baby girls have reached, and still worry about the poor women and children who will suffer if this latest bill is passed. Even Elon is against it. But in order to do that, to carry on with sun hats and fear, we have to disassociate ourselves. And that is surely taking its toll.

When a country is fed so many lies, our response is to not believe anything. Or better yet, focus on the Bezos wedding, or the Diddy trial. Distract and demolish our institutions one by one in order to beef up the executive branch. But we must keep watch, we must call our legislators and protest, we must write letters to the editor, and never give up on our democracy. History is watching.

The Gambler

“Only in Nashville,” the Bride said.

I was sitting in my physical therapist’s waiting room – I do a lot of waiting lately, and a lot of PT actually – but this place is different. It’s a small, independent, out-of-the-way shop where the Nashville Ballet heals its wounds. Naturally it has a ballet barre. There are no big machines or loud music like my recent California PT located in a gym the size of an airplane hangar. And there are no assistants either, you get one therapist and she spends all her time with you and only you!

Anyway, as usual, the receptionist Mitzie was engaged in a rollicking conversation with another client across from me. The woman was talking about her husband, who is still in the hospital, and the various and sundry visitors he’s had, when Mitzie asked if she’d told him… Told him what? At this point I was simply a bystander, leafing through a magazine and occasionally looking up. I was imagining her husband had a terminal illness, and she was waiting for the right time to break the news.

“Oh no,” the middle aged woman in a knee brace said, “you’ve gotta know when to hold em.”

There was an older man sitting next to me, another point of interest in this PT people’s triangle. He was someone I’d seen before, and actually had talked to about Duke University since he wore a big blue “D” baseball cap. “You mean the school with a basketball team,” he said. I don’t do a lot of flirting anymore, but I would certainly flirt with him. I liked his personality and his smile. And since the woman across from us with her husband in the hospital had mentioned her son was at Duke currently, we all joined in the conversation. That’s the way it is in the South, btw.

As a therapist escorted the man out of the waiting room, Mitzie left her desk and went straight over to the talkative woman, took hold of both her hands, looked right in her eyes and told her that the man in the Duke hat had written those lyrics:

You got to know when to hold ’em
Know when to fold ’em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run

She said she got goose bumps, but she used some other Southern idiom. Exactly the same thing I get before a frog jumps in my throat! I had to tell the family text chain about this – and the Bride was the first to reply. “Only in Nashville,” a city where music and medicine are always interconnected. And that’s when Camille, my therapist/ballet dancer, came out to get me and teach me a few things about bands and balance.

This was before Mr T decided to join Bebe in a fight to save the world from nuclear annihilation. Or so he says. I wonder what kind of gambler our president is? We already know not to believe his policy by tweet mentality. We know he likes strong men. But just because he says the war is over, doesn’t make it so. He is not Captain Jean-Luc Picard after all. We are now on that train to solve humanity’s oldest war.

“Son I’ve made a life
Out of reading people’s faces
And knowing what their cards were
By the way they held their eyes
So, if you don’t mind my saying
I can see you’re out of aces
For a taste of your whiskey
I’ll give you some advice.
https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kennyrogers/thegambler.html

The Minneapple

Minnesota, the land of 11,842 lakes. Where the children are all gifted but the lakes don’t freeze over quite so much anymore. When the Flapper was living out her golden years on Lake Minnetonka, I loved visiting her in the summer and seeing my brothers and their families. Mike called it “the Good Life,” hosting epic Fourth of July parties at his waterfront home with his wife Jorja. I once tried talking Bob into moving there. But the Twin Cities couldn’t compete with the twin states of NY and NJ – even though their marketing slogan, Minneapple, begged to differ.

On Saturday, I was holding down the fort while my Nashville family attended the “No Kings” march. I was armed with a lawyer’s number, just in case, but I was particularly worried because of the news from Minnesota. I texted my brother Dr Jim, who said he was sheltering in place. We were just hearing about this psycho killer, disguised as a cop, on the loose targeting Democratic officials. And like any good terrorist plot twist, nobody knew if some extreme, right-wing, white-nationalist, militia group was planning to disrupt the marches around the country on our would-be king’s birthday.

It was a feeling I’d forgotten, like post 9/11 when I couldn’t find the teenage Rocker and unbeknownst to me the Bride had left her federal building in DC and I couldn’t reach her, and Bob ran to the Highlands dock where the injured and dead never came.

Only this time the terror has come from within. A list with over 70 names of Democratic legislators and Pro-Choice advocates across many states was found in the perpetrator’s fake cop car, along with more assault rifles. I refuse to name the murderer, but the woman he gunned down, Representative Melissa Hortman, was in many ways what we would all like our elected officials to be – someone who could work across the aisle. She died alongside her husband Mark.

Over the years, she gained a reputation as a workhorse, skilled at getting difficult objectives accomplished and at collaborating effectively across the aisle. “She always did her homework,” said Steve Simon, Minnesota’s Democratic secretary of state, who met Ms. Hortman in law school at the University of Minnesota in the 1990s. “She was steely and strategic and savvy and yet so likable as a person because she always remembered people’s humanity, even and especially if they were on the other side of the aisle.” https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/16/us/minnesota-slaying-melissa-hortman.html

Thankfully, this madman has been caught. I read that we Americans may just have to accept politically motivated violence, in the same way we’ve come to accept school shootings. This gave me pause. Because if that’s true, well, what does that say about our society? A culture that glorifies guns at all costs?

Senator Mike Lee (R – Utah) chose to make fun of the senseless killing spree over No Kings and Father’s Day weekend, writing on X, “This is what happens when Marxists don’t get their way,” with a photo of the killer at Ms Hortman’s door. Then doubling down following that post with a joke aimed at Gov Tim Walz. Lee is a disgrace to his office.

I remember Walter Cronkite, the “most trusted man in America.”. My foster parents tuned into CBS Evening News every night after dinner in the 1960s and 70s. He told us when our President was assassinated; he took off his glasses, looked up at the clock on a wall, and told us the moment JFK was pronounced dead. Cronkite helped us make sense of Vietnam. In fact, when he returned from a trip to Vietnam his usual objectivity had changed – he told us the war would end in a stalemate. This prompted LBJ to say, “If I’ve lost Cronkite, I’ve lost Middle America,”

Tuning into his broadcast was a ritual, like putting the kettle on for tea. But In this information age, where breaking news is lightning fast (and rarely newsworthy btw) on a phone buzzing in our pocket, the idea of gathering around a television set at a certain time is nostalgic at best. Like the Flapper hearing about the end of WWII on a radio in my father’s pharmacy. For my parents’ black and white TV generation, former war correspondent and CBS journalist Edward R. Murrow was must-hear-and-see on their nightly “…wires and lights in a box.” Murrow wrote about television:

This instrument can teach, it can illuminate; yes, and even it can inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it’s nothing but wires and lights in a box. There is a great and perhaps decisive battle to be fought against ignorance, intolerance and indifference. This weapon of television could be useful. Stonewall Jackson, who is generally believed to have known something about weapons, is reported to have said, “When war comes, you must draw the sword and throw away the scabbard.” The trouble with television is that it is rusting in the scabbard during a battle for survival. Thank you for your patience.https://www.rtdna.org/murrows-famous-wires-and-lights-in-a-box

Then he would say, “Good Night, and Good Luck!” Of course he had no idea what technological innovations would be battling for our grandchildrens’ attention.

Which is why Bob and I looked forward to Saturday night’s live broadcast of the Broadway play, “Good Night and Good Luck” for weeks. Remember we’d befriended Anne Brandt in California, the mother of one of the cast members. I emphasized the CNN show on my family group text chain, I told our Germantown friends all about it at a dinner party last Friday. George Clooney played Murrow during the McCarthy era, when a junior senator from Wisconsin turned Congress and much of the country into a Red-baiting, anti-Soviet court of fear and suspicion. He went after the Army, and even fellow senators. Many liberal, and especially Jewish artists, were black-listed in Hollywood simply for having been associated with a Communist.

For a moment during the play, time stood still. Murrow invited Joseph McCarthy to come on his show, to explain his ideology, and using McCarthy’s own words from archived footage, we listened to the hatred and outright lies of the junior senator. We could see the malice and contempt in his face. And then we heard Murrow’s response in Clooney’s calm and reassuring voice, calling out all the falsehoods. This kind of ‘advocacy’ journalism was still pretty new, it too changed the tide of public opinion. McCarthy died of alcoholism three years after counsel for the US Army asked him, “Have you no sense of decency?” 

Today another news journalist has been suspended from the air waves, “ABC News suspended the network correspondent Terry Moran on Sunday after he wrote on social media that Stephen Miller, the deputy White House chief of staff, was “a man who is richly endowed with the capacity for hatred” and called him “a world-class hater.” https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/08/business/media/abc-news-terry-moran-suspended.html

Granted this was said online on X on Moran’s own time, but beyond the First Amendment is a backdrop of ABC settling a law suit with Mr T for millions over something George Stephanopoulos said on air. I’m furious this morning after reading this NYTimes article, and after seeing what’s happening in LA with the National Guard. And yet I have to believe the American public can differentiate between opinion and the who what where when and WHY of the news business, and that free speech is still our unalienable right. It’s as American as ice cream and apple pie.

We’ve had a noteworthy Spring so far in our family and friends network. Aside from the early arrival of our beautiful baby grand girls, there’s been a record number of graduations – the Pumpkin from lower school, one high school, two college alums and a law school! Congratulations to ALL the graduates out there. May our Grandson have smooth sailing in middle school and best of luck to everyone on their next chapter.

And remember, no matter where you start out, it’s the journey that counts.

My Father, a pharmacist from Scranton, PA, turned away from the family business of butchering to pursue an education in science. The Flapper told me his family never forgave him, and well, they also didn’t approve of her – a widowed, ex-dime-a-dance girl. His family was well established Irish; they came over early and made their money in cattle. The Flapper’s Mother, my Nana, was a domestic worker. I have a picture of my paternal grandmother looking quite formidable. All I know about her is she went to Mass every single day.

Excuse my nostalgia, but Bob has finally filled two legacy boxes with all our old paper pictures. We are on the cusp of entering the digital visual world! So I’ve spent the weekend going through lots of black and white photos. My foster parents kept an album of my baby pictures glued to thick, black paper and I can’t thank Bob enough for managing to free my childhood photos. It seems after reading the back of one photo, they actually entered me in a cute baby contest! I love the one of me pretending to read a newspaper, like Daddy Jim. He left school after 8th Grade to help support his family.

He was the most loving and nurturing father a child could ask for, I was lucky.

School pictures, my college graduation picture, my wedding pictures. The Flapper with Cab Calloway in MN. A picture of my sister Kay in a white coat next to one of the first ultrasound machines in NYC. Kay tells me that buried in her apartment is a 1958 graduation picture of her National Airlines stewardess class. My brother Dr Jim’s graduation from OCS in NC, before he went to Vietnam. The Flapper pinning his bars on his shoulder, my sister wearing her wings.

Journey joyfully and with alacrity, and always be ready to pivot. My Kindergarten picture.